A Saldeaen Farmgirl at Harvest
by Clement Rage
Summary: There's a reason for their reputation.


Three in five Borderlands farmboys were dead before their twentieth nameday. Any village was fortified enough to fend off a fist of Trollocs, and any forces bigger than that were whittled down at the border forts and quickly hunted down by soldiers. The small raids that penetrated, however, focused on the farms. However solidly built the farmhouses were, few could repel a sustained attack. Maradon didn't have enough soldiers to occupy every farm, but in order to keep the borderlands from starving, as much arable land as was possible had to be taken advantage of, however many deaths that involved. Saldaeans were, thankfully, not Malkieri, but they still had a first instinct to protect women, meaning that only one in five farmgirls died violently in their youth. The casualty rate for farmers was higher than soldiers most years, unless a major concentrated offensive came from the Blight. It was the price they paid to hold it back, and the reason Merese was sitting on a guard post at the edge of her father's land, watching the road to Maradon.

Ten soldiers and fifteen farm workers had gone to protect their tithe sent to the capital. They could sell what was left to any who needed it, but the cities needed to be supplied in case of siege. The Myrddraal knew that, so raiding parties would be stepped up to intercept supply trains at this time of year before settling for the winter. While Trollocs could travel in snow, they were used to the heat of the blight, and when cold and miserable tended to kill each other for food, exercise, or entertainment.

That left five people on this farm to guard the young children, not enough to resist a raid, but at this time of year, the raids would be on the roads, not the farms. Mostly.

Merese had chosen to watch the road to Maradon today because her not quite betrothed, Paitr, had gone with the tithe, and if he survived to return, she had vowed that he would find himself wrapped around her on the roof for most of the night, come rain, snow, or hailstones. Southerners had the luxury of shadowy corners to hide in, but shadows opened avenues for Myrddraal, making privacy difficult. She'd have to fight hard to hold onto him come the Harvest Festival, which celebrated the fact that they'd managed to survive another year. Far more girls survived to reach adulthood than boys, which meant they had to make the most of them. The Royal Court at Maradon was known to look down on the practice, but Queen Tenobia had never lost her first three lovers to Trolloc cookpots.

The day stretched on, and Merese tried not to yawn. Most of the time, she would never have had this much free time, but the fields were bare after harvest, and the little livestock they had were already fed and bedded. She wondered what it would be like to be born into nobility sometimes, lounging around with a fan all day. How long would it take before she got tired of the lifestyle and fled into the wilderness?

Turning back to the Maradon road, she caught a bulky black mailed shape among the trees to one side. Breath catching, she reached for her shortbow and nocked it. Saldaean girls were not generally taught the sword or lance, but most farmers had seen the aftermath of too many raids to leave their daughters defenceless. Merese knew the bow. She was a better shot than either of her surviving brothers –you needed to be good to take a raven on the wing, and a couple of dozen raven bounties could be the difference between successfully meeting outstanding debts and being forced to abandon the farm.

Spitting over the edge of the guard post, she marked the direction of the wind. They shouldn't be able to catch her scent. Good. Now, what was she going to do? If there was just the one, she could probably strike it, but if there were more she hadn't seen, she'd give away her presence with the shot. During the year, she could have slipped away and hidden in the corn stalks, but after harvest, she couldn't be concealed and the Trollocs would run or shoot her down. More mailed shapes flickered through the trees. How well did that armour stand up to bowshot? Did she have the courage to find out? And where did they get all that black dye?

The fallow land around the tilled fields was cut back, for exactly this reason, so there was no cover for this approach. As they advanced, she counted five Trollocs, most nursing scars, before a black cloaked shape slipped out of the trees. A Myrddraal. Light! They'd seen battle somewhere. Maybe they were in flight, and had stumbled across this farm by chance. Not that that would make a difference.

Only a t_a'veren _or Aes Sedai had much chance of escaping a situation like this alone. Merese was neither. If she drew their attention, she would die. But farmgirl or not, she was a Saldaean. The Borderlanders knew their duty. One of the Trollocs said something to its fellows, and five bestial heads snapped around to fix on the guardpost, with its lone sentinel. Merese loosed.

It was the shot of her life, with no one to witness. The Myrddraal's black blade flicked up to bite the shaft, but the arrow's iron point had already punched into the eyeless head, black caped figure toppling backwards into the shade of a tree. Merese had heard that sometimes killing a Fade caused its Trollocs to die too, but these ones didn't fall. Typical of her luck. The only Myrddraal in the Blight fool enough to trust Trollocs, and she had found it.

There was a ripple from their lines, before the Trollocs spread out and charged. She'd always heard that they were cowardly, but a lone defender was too much of an opportunity to miss. To safely complete the return journey, they would need provisions. It was harder to hit charging targets than most believed. Her second shot struck mail, the point punching through an armoured shoulder but, the Trolloc merely howled and transferred its spiked mace to the other hand.

Merese had time for one final shot, leaning out until she was almost shooting straight down. The shaft bit through a Trolloc boot, prompting a snarl. It was not a killing strike, but the Trolloc would never be able to get back to the blight alive with a wound like that. It would move too slowly to escape the horse patrols.

A long pike flashed towards her, forcing Merese to scramble backwards. The Trollocs were now too close to shoot until they climbed to her level. The guard tower was made of wood, but setting it alight would draw every patrol for miles around. They'd have to come and get her. Grunts and heavy footsteps reached her from just below. A taloned hand appeared over the edge of the platform, and then a wolf snouted head. Merese loosed, but after hitting a Fade at two hundred paces, in her panic she missed the Trolloc at barely two. It had raised a hand to try to block the shot, the other seizing her leg, and without thought, she kicked. The creature was easily three times her weight, but off balance, and teetered backwards as her other foot connected with its jaw. Sharp teeth pierced her boot –no soft shoes for someone expected to _work_-and Merese bit back a scream, but the Trolloc was knocked back off the edge of the post.

The guard post was a watchtower, not a fortress. If they rushed her, she would not survive. But there was silence from below, the scrabbling at the sides fading away.

"Pretty lady come down?" It was not a human voice. "We no hurt."

Merese elected not to reply. She would be cut down as soon as she descended, or strung up and devoured. Three thousand years of unbroken precedent made her disinclined to trust its word.

"We no hurt!" the voice insisted. Merese tried to stand, and managed it, but she was limping too badly to shoot straight even if a target presented itself. They'd probably kill her quickly, too few to carry a captive back to the Blasted Lands. Not _whole, _anyway. She nocked another arrow, prepared to loose at any movement she saw.

That was when the arm twisted around her neck from behind, prompting harsh laughter from below at her scream. She had not heard the Myrddraal approach. Arrows clattered around its feet, as she was lifted off hers.

"You smell… delicious…" the Fade whispered in her ear, rough tongue rasping down the side of her neck. She could feel the blunt base of the arrowhead lodged in its face cool against her scalp, the shaft snapped off. Myrddraal were supposed to take a long time to die. And they could go anywhere there was a shadow.

That Trolloc she'd shot through the foot would die before it could escape. There might be some comfort in that. Taking a step, the Myrddraal flung her forward off the guard post. She landed face down in the ploughed earth, a spear immediately punching into her back above her right hip. Behind her, she heard the dry snaps of the Fade breaking her bow across its knee. Guttural laugh, then movement. She couldn't even scream as the Trolloc at the other end of the spear jerked it, trying to mount her body up on the blade. She slid back to the ground to harsh laughter, hissing with pain but completely incapable of any other movement. A hoof stamped on her right wrist. Merese closed her eyes and waited to die.

Grunt, hiss, bubbling noise, and weight. Hair, bulk. A Trolloc was lying on her. After a brief moment of blinding horror, she realised it was not moving. Her own blood trickled past her eyes, and for a time, that was the last she knew.

000000

Merese opened her eyes to the solid stone of the farmhouse ceiling, so heavily bandaged she could barely move, and in more pain than she remembered from the first stabbing.

Paitr was asleep in a chair across from her, a fresh gash across his temple and a knife in his fist. There were five lanterns in the room, two more than normal. Paitr was being negligent in falling asleep, any single misstep could destroy most of the building. Kicking the footboard, she suppressed a smile as he jerked awake with knife in hand.

"Merese? You're awake? How do you feel?"

"I'm alive," she said, glancing at him. "I won't be dancing much tomorrow, though." Saldaea's Harvest Festival was famous across the nations, mostly for the habit of the girls of grabbing a boy they had their eye on and dragging him into the nearest private location they could find. And if they couldn't find one, well, people knew what they were seeking privacy for anyway, and better that than some shadowy corner that could see them both dead. Some sow would seize on Paitr undoubtedly. But for once, that was not her main concern.

"What happened?"

Paitr's face flickered. "Dalyn heard you scream. He ran to help, shot a Trolloc twice in the back when he saw it stab you. Then Micah came out, and the Fade must have thought that there were more inside, because the rest fled. The Myrddraal is gone too, but it… It took its time. They're dead. They're both dead, Merese."

A southerner might have asked a question at that point, but Merese knew better than to believe she'd misheard. Dalyn and Micah, her last two surviving brothers, aged ten and fourteen. Myrddraal liked to deliver pain, and they were very good at it. It had left her alive. Five brothers dead in raids, one in a fall from a barn, one sister who had married and gone to live in one of the villages. Merese hadn't seen her in years.

"How do you know this?"

"Kirn was watching from a window." Kirn was a neighbour's child, eleven years old, who had been staying with them since her home had been burnt to the ground in a raid when she was five. The farmhouse had been attacked by a full fist, and her father had brought her into the cellar and told her to stay there until she was found, before taking up his old cavalry lance. By the time anyone heard the crying from under the ashes, she had been three days without food, rest, or treatment, and even Aes Sedai Healing had never been able to bring a smile back to her eyes.

Every Borderlander knew at least one story like that. For every heroic charge that prevailed against impossible odds, another one died in a futile last stand. For every family that miraculously survived a raid, another was cooked and eaten by sheer ill chance._ That_ was a truth of the Borderlands that everyone soon learned.

Grasping at a bedpost, Merese hauled herself upright. "And father?"

"Sitting below. We're all keeping a close eye on him."

_He won't recover from this. We had to protect the tithe, and no amount of guards could have stopped the Fade, but he'd best go to live in a village for a while._

Merese looked at Paitr, now the closest person she had to family, and dragged him close with her good hand. Paitr moved as gently as he ever had, her tears trickling down his neck. She did not notice when her bandages began to weep blood, and would not have cared if she had. Either of them could be dead before next year's harvest, but she planned to make the most of what she had left.


End file.
